Collide
by mrsuriestump
Summary: Annie in the capitol, and when she's saved. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Collide

Chapter One: Smug

POV: Annie Cresta

_"In my feild of paper flowers_

_Of candy clouds of lullaby_

_I lie inside myself for hours_

_And watch my purple sky fly over me"_

- Imaginary by Evanescence

Here they call me Cresta. The only ones who call me Annie are the female "nurses" who try to lull me into a false sense of security. They casually ask about Finnick's whereabouts as they jab different needles into my arms, restoring minimal nourishment into my abused body. I almost roll my eyes. I'm not the sanest of people by far, but I'm not loony enough that I don't realize that they're trying to coax rebel information from me.

_Well, I don't have any_, I think, _so there._

It's better if they think you're insane, I realize. They (the nurses) feel more pity toward you than contempt. Today I ramble on endlessly about a mermaid I saw by the docks once named Venetia with purple hair and a silver tail, making sure to randomly insert loud peals of laughter.

"You spent quite some time with Mr. Odair, correct?" a lady with caramel-colored skin and dark green hair asks in a sweet voice.

"Finnick was there too," I giggle, "he and Venetia waltzed together in the coral. She told us she'd bring us back to her palace-" my eyes widen for effect- "her palace made of _bubbles_. Can you believe that? Bubbles! Of every color and every shape. Some were shimmery, she said. But we never got the chance to go there. Can you believe that!" I smile widely like a little girl, and the nurse pats my head. A stocky man with turquoise skin and gold eyes takes notes in the corner, thinking maybe my story was some secret underground rebel code. I'll have to think of one about otters who wear dresses next. Really throw them off guard.

They dump me back into my cell soon enough and I quiet down. Here isn't so bad either. Here's just quiet and -so- boring, so I daydream in this place. Sometimes Finnick pops up, but often it hurts too much to think about him, so I mostly think about the lighthouse my father owned when he was still alive, and I imagine walking down a strip of perfect white-sand beach. I even paint the mermaid Venetia in my mind this time, wishing I had some paper and pencils to draw her. After I really get myself started with all this fantasy, sometimes I can even bring myself to forget about the drab gray cement that's so imprisoning and so never-ending at the same time.

The only room I ever want to get out of so badly is the room where they try to get things out of me without being nice. Here screaming won't help. They consider me to have a child's mind here, so they tell me it's called the Storytelling room. Something tells me they don't want to hear about bubble palaces here.

Oh, I thrashed at first. I cried and screamed and kicked things and begged. It doesn't help. They assume you have information, and they don't let up. It only gets worse. So I've learned to keep my mouth clamped absolutely shut and let my mind drag me in and out of conciousness, out of the present, of out reality, to the games to my father's lighthouse and back to the arena and Venetia's bubble palace and the hospital and to the victor's village and all the way back to this very room.

They have a mirror on the ceiling here so I can watch what's being done to me and a neck brace so I can't turn away. They have screams recorded. My mother's, my brother's, my own, Finnick's, my friends'... They play them over and over along with the sounds of axes hitting god-knows-what and gunshots and everything else horrible and bloody that they can think of. I could close my eyes, I suppose, as a deep, searing, unknown pain travels down my spine, but I don't. I stare myself straight in the eyes, looking for any sign of weakness or helplessness. I feel almost smug when I don't find any.

"Where is Finnick Odair?" a man grunts, and I feel a stab of pain in my ankle. I stare at my own mouth when I speak the only words I ever speak in this room: "I don't know."

Because I don't, can't they see that?


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter Two: Whispers

A/N: I always hated when people took so long to update fanfiction. Now I understand why they do. Also, I own nothing.

POV: Annie Cresta

"I'm coming apart at the seams

Pitching myself for leads in other people's dreams now

Buzz, buzz, buzz,

Doc, there's a hole where something was."

- Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes by Fall Out Boy

"Cresta!" a harsh voice shouts, almost making me jump but not quite. A dull silver tray is shoved through a narrow metal slit in my door. My minuscule dinner: a hard roll, a glass of water, and a tiny bowl of green soup. I drink down the water and pick at the roll. I idly wonder when the last time I had a decent meal was. This is the most I've gotten in about a week.

Bored, I play with the remainder of the roll, tipping it back and forth over the tray until I notice something odd: markings on the bottom of the bread. Deliberate ones, darker than the rest of the roll. The lines were burned. There's a circle, I realize. Three slightly curved strokes in the circle, and a smaller line toward the edge...

I gasp aloud. The image is of a mockingjay. More specifically, Katniss Everdeen's mockingjay. The very _symbol_ of the rebellion. I must really be going insane.

If this is some kind of signal, I have to rid of the evidence. I chew the remainder of the bread quickly, head reeling. What if it _is_ a rebel signal? What if I'm getting out of here? What if it's just a sick joke played by one of the cooks here or a ploy to make me reveal rebel information by making me think I'm busting out?

What if I have gone positively bonkers? _Again?_

I keep a straight face when the guard comes back to retrieve my tray.

"Was the bread all right?" the man grunts.

"A bit burnt," I reply casually, "otherwise fine." I'm relieved at how natural my reply is: if it's nothing but a joke or my imagination, they won't give it a second thought; however, if i indeed see a mockingjay and it did indeed mean something important, I've just confirmed that I saw the message.

I try not to hope that I'll be out of here soon, but I do anyway.

I used to be pretty.

The thought strikes me when I'm in the Storytelling room again and they're doing some unimaginable thing to my torso. I stare up at myself in the mirror. I'm 22, but I feel forty.

The summer before I was reaped- I had just turned sixteen- was the year I filled up and out, and I began to notice my own curves. That was the summer where I begged my mother to let me wear my skirts higher and fussed with my hair until it fell naturally into perfect, beachy waves.

I could feel the stares, hear the whispers as I walked down the halls that fall and winter. I was thin and tall, with slightly tanned skin. The boys would stare (even though I never dated any of them) and the girls would sneer in my direction, thoroughly jealous. I was... I was beautiful, even though I never quite thought so back then.

Now my complexion has turned sickly and pale. My long hair now falls in knots instead of satiny waves. My green eyes take on a more vacant stare every single day.

I wonder how Finnick would perceive me now.


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter Three: Free

A/N: YES, I know the last time I updated was September. NO, I am not sorry. AP English waits for no mere mortal. Enjoy anyway, review if you wish.

POV: Annie Cresta

_"As I walk through the streets of my new city_

_My back feeling much better, I suppose_

_I've reclaimed the use of my imagination_

_For better or for worse, I've yet to know."_

- Be Calm by fun.

I saw Johanna Mason earlier this morning, I recall as I try to go to sleep. She was as I have never seen her: vulnerable, weak, and scared. I think this may be the only time that my willpower is stronger than hers. I want to tell her about the mockingjay on the bread, but of course the Capitol would be listening, and besides that Johanna somewhat scares me. I don't believe she likes me very much.

I haven't seen any other victor. The only thing I know is that Finnick isn't in here, since they keep asking me where he is, and the thought soothes me. Wherever he is just has to be better than here. I picture him sitting on the porch of his house in Four, staring out on the beach and waiting for me. The image of the waves is enough to make me drowsier, and I finally drift into dreams.

I wake up to mass hysteria.

This is not as unusual as one would think it would be. A few weeks ago, for instance, a group of prisoners attempted to disarm and attack a Capitol guard (bad idea). It seemed like after that the noise level among them didn't die down for days. Of course, all those who cried out for justice were silenced by starvation, and those who started the riot were immediately put to death.

This morning, however, is different. The prisoners are not the ones screaming and cursing. It is the guards. From my fellow jailbirds, I hear both shrieks of terror and cries of joy. _What in Panem is going on?_ I'm quite frightened, so I wrap myself up in my thin bedsheet and curl up in the corner. Maybe I'm hidden now. It's the best I can do.

I hear shots. More screaming. Finally, a loud _clank _and a gentle voice: "Annie? Annie Cresta?"

A nurse? No. I slowly look up to see a boy's face. He looks strangely familiar. His grey eyes and mess of dark hair mark him as being from Twelve. I thought Twelve was bombed. No survivors, the Capitol told us.

I cannot speak, so I give a slow nod.

"I'm..." he hesitates, as though he's unsure what to call himself. "I'm a friend of Finnick's. I'm getting you out of here."

_Finnick. Oh my god. Is he all right? Is he waiting for me? Does he know I'm alive? Is he all right!_

"Do you trust me?" he asks.

Do I have a choice? I rise to my feet, knees wobbling somewhat, in my sheet and all, and follow the boy out.

The next thing I remember is a hospital. I almost scream because I'm positive I'm still in that prison and that the boy who saved me is surely dead and that I'll never see Finnick again.

One thing keeps my mouth shut: I feel _better_. A doctor inspects me, pokes and prods me, makes sure there's nothing too physically wrong with me. Later I see that she has written in her curly medical script: "Bruises, cuts, burns, scars; underweight, neglected; no major internal damage". I suppose I'm one of the lucky ones. She orders a mental exam to make sure I'm not psychologically damaged and I laugh so hard I'm sure I'll cry.

Somehow I pass that test as well, and I wait. Doctor Avalea needs official permission from the hospital to release me. In the meantime, I wobble over to the small room's bathroom and find a hairbrush. I yank the knots out of my hair (and probably half my hair along with it). I try with no success to wash some of the dirt off of my skin and out from under my fingernails. I long for a proper shower, but at the moment I'm just glad to be alive.

Two quiet knocks at the door. "Miss Cresta?"

"Yes, doctor?"

"You're free to go."

Free to go? I don't even know where I am. My silence must be an indicator of my confusion. "Do you have anyone waiting for you?" she asks.

"Yes," I say uncertainly. This isn't technically a lie. I have no idea who will be out there, but there has to be someone who will help me. Right?

I stumble out of the miniscule bathroom and wrap myself in my sheet again to possibly protect myself from the mysterious chill in the air. I step out uncertainly into an immense room, where doctors shout orders over their shoulders and everyone seems panicked.

I look around, desperate to see just one familiar face.

I notice him before he notices me.


	4. Chapter 4

Collide

Chapter Four: Home

A/N I saw the Hunger Games today! It really was well worth it :)

POV: Annie Cresta

_"When the moon found the sun_

_He looked like he was barely hanging on_

_But her eyes saved his life _

_In the middle of summer."_

- When The Day Met The Night by Panic! At The Disco

Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

_Finnick!_

I will the words to come out of my mouth and find that they will not surface. My knees are wobbly. He's alive. He's alive. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. His eyes are puffy. He works, determined, on a complex knot I remember he taught me when I was fifteen.

"Fin… Fin…" I whisper, voice trembling. "Finnick!" I scream.

His head snaps up at the call. He rises to his feet in an instant, looking around wildly, possibly afraid that he's gone mad.

I call his name again. His eyes meet mine and suddenly I'm running, running faster and farther and longer than I have since the peacekeepers showed up at my door months ago. Inches away, I lose my balance and collapse into him. He locks his arms around me, and we stumble against a wall.

"Don't let go, don't let go," I mumble like a madwoman, burying my face in his thin shirt and letting the tears flow.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he whispers back, kissing my hair. His voice sounds like home.

I raise my head to take in the full sight of him. His hair is tangled and knotted. He hasn't shaved in ages. Dark circles are heavy underneath the same sea green eyes. His clothes are looser than I remember them, his body no doubt not in the condition that so impressed the women (and the right kind of men) in the Capitol.

I don't care. Not in the least. He's here and so close and alive. I stretch out on my tiptoes and kiss him with all the tenderness I've been saving. He envelops me, and there we stay. I'm not sure how long it is. Seconds, minutes. It feels like hours.

"I love you," we say at the exact same time.

"They hurt you," he states, sadness obvious in his voice.

The slate grey walls and starch white sheets remind me so much of my cell that the first time I stepped in I couldn't stop shaking. But he's here now, holding me as if he cannot stand to let go. I asked him if this was considered breaking the rules, but he swore he got special permission. Right.

"I got used to it," I dismiss quietly, "I could handle it after a while. I was just so worried about you."

He laughs quietly as if I'm being silly, and his fingers trace a scar below my hairline.

"How did you manage?" I ask.

"I didn't." He shrugs. "I tied knots. Talked to Katniss. Slung a trident around a few times. And missed you terribly. You?"

"I…. told some Capitol nurses stories about mermaids to shut them up. It was like a game after a while."

This draws a genuine laugh from him, and I realize how much I missed the sound of it. I smile for the first time since I can remember.

For now, I am content.

The end.


End file.
